


Just Like Heaven

by unscriptedemily



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Drabble, Fluff, Global Warming, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, falling asleep, i really like how global warming is a legitimate tag on here, well. sorta. depending on your definition of drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6125749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unscriptedemily/pseuds/unscriptedemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy ponders the environment, various different adjectives for 'warm', and Ed's hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> have you guys heard the katie melua version of the song 'just like heaven' by the cure ??? because it's rly good. i found my piece by piece album cd from like 5 years ago and i got rly emotional!!! ;///; i listened to the song for the first time in years and my gay ass was immediately like ROYED!! i mean: "you / soft and only / you / lost and lonely / you / strange as angels / dancing in the deepest oceans / twisting in the water / you're just like a dream".. tell me thats not roy being a gigantic sap. Tell Me.  
> anyway this is rly short (like REALLY REALLY short. like the note is probably more than half its length by now) but my wondrous beta said it was very sweet so i hope you enjoy it!!! i needed a break from all the Angst ive been writing recently hahaha

Global warming is undoubtedly terrible for the environment. If science is to be believed—and Roy makes a point of generally believing what science has to say; Ed would kill him otherwise—it is slowly, but surely killing off hundreds of endangered species of animals; not to mention contributing to the eventual demise of the human race as a whole.

And yet Roy finds it very difficult to concentrate on the downsides when global warming is _also_ the same thing enabling him to be lying in a pool of warm sunshine with his hand in Ed’s hair in mid-February.

By all means it should be wintery, icy-cold and frosty; perhaps in another time there would even be snow adorning the streets of Central City.

Not this year. This year there is sun; concentrated beams of it, focused through the window glass and bathing them in a glow that almost makes Roy believe in heaven.

Slowly, he cards his fingers through the loose gold tresses. Ed shifts slightly in his sleep to press his face into Roy’s chest and mumble something incoherent into his skin. He smells faintly of machine oil from the automail, of soap, and of coffee.

Roy watches dust motes floating in the shafts of light pouring in through the open window; a soft breeze ruffles the blinds and sends the dust swirling, spiralling uncontrollably. Ed is curled against Roy’s side, one leg thrown over his waist, possessive, and his breathe is hot and even.

They lie there, and soak in the dregs of the sun as the hours wheel past and the shadows lengthen outside, slowly turning the light dusky and the clouds blushing.

 

***

 

It’s afternoon when they wake, Ed raising his head mussily to ask, “Whassa time?” before thumping back down onto Roy, heavy-limbed and sleep-tangled still.

Roy manages to lift his eyelids—though it takes a lot more effort than anticipated—and squints at the clock on the bedside table.

“Four in the afternoon.”  He says, and closes his eyes again. The sun is now nearing the end of its arc across the sky, and the breeze is cooler, but not uncomfortably so. Roy breathes in the heady scent of Ed’s hair.  “It can’t be time to get up yet.”

Ed sighs one deep, long sigh, and reaches down to tug the covers up over them.

“Go t’ sleep.” He says, muffled. “….Still tired.”

It’s a miracle, really, that he hasn’t shot up and out of the room, heading straight for the kitchen, complaining about not having eaten anything all day.

Then again, Ed gets like this sometimes. Roy wonders if it’s something to do with how _constant_ his energy is; some days he just…winds down. Slows. _Sleeps_.

And he _has_ just returned from a mission. Roy isn’t used to it yet: the tugging ache in his chest when he sees Ed off at the train station, knowing full well that he won’t hear from him for weeks, even _months_ on end. Telegrams, when they come, are infrequent and sparsely worded; they give him no comfort, sitting at his desk while Edward travels the country getting into fights and saving townspeople from evildoers.

When he returns, it’s more often than not with fresh bruises, scars, sometimes worse. Roy wishes he could find a way to break Ed free of the contract sooner but he’s tried everything and the higher-ups are frustratingly unwilling to let go of their favourite shining asset so easily.

There are still a few months left to go before Ed walks out of the military forever. Roy can only hope that Ed doesn’t walk away from him, too.

This time, Ed returned with his automail hanging by a thread (Miss Rockbell had been less than pleased) and a gauze patch on his cheek. This, to be fair, was better than Roy was expecting—but no less distressing.

“I know I say this every time,” he murmurs without opening his eyes, holding Ed tight, curtains rustling, changing light playing over his closed eyelids, “but you really should try to be more careful, love.”

“I’m _careful_ ,” Ed mutters, poking him half-heartedly, still too tired to muster any real annoyance, “’S not _my_ fault people’re always tryin’ to kick my ass.”

“I know,” says Roy, “I know. Just—I worry.”

“Yeah, well, you worry too much.”

“I know that, too.”

They are warm, here, and safe; in this bed they are held in each other’s arms, walled off from twisted alchemists and monsters and bloodthirsty humans obsessed with the endless struggle for power. In this bed Ed is not the Fullmetal Alchemist, and Roy is not General Mustang; they are just two people, in love.

Roy thinks they deserve more days like this: warm, soft, sunlit days. Days like this always pass so _quickly_ and are spread so thinly over the course of the years that they have become precious treasures, rarities; things to be remembered with a certain sad fondness in the days and weeks to come.

He thinks he would be content to spend the rest of his life here, in this bed, with Ed sleeping heavy and drowsy half on top of him, occasionally mumbling strings of equations that Roy can barely follow under his breath as his dreams flicker behind his eyes.

He thinks that it might all be worth it; the missions and the parting and the—yes, the _pining_ , as Havoc likes to call it, when they’re apart. He thinks it might be worth it, if only for these days. Equivalent exchange, as Ed would say—collect enough shitty days and eventually the universe may deign to give something back, in the form of a perfectly listless windfall summer, golden and glowing with the love of your life.

 

 


End file.
